McWaif
by Channel D
Summary: Another concern-for-Tim's-weightloss story, this one much darker. Will the cutting back on the donuts be Tim's downfall? Tony and Ziva are concerned. A companion story to McSkinny, also being uploaded today. Minor season 7 spoilers. One-shot, drama.


**McWaif**

**by channelD**

written for: a friend's birthday  
rating: K plus  
characters: Tim and the team  
genre: angst, drama, dark  
spoiler warning: minor season 7 spoilers  
author's note: This is a companion story to _McSkinny_; approaching the same concerns from a different angle.

- - - - -

_disclaimer_: Once again, I own nothing of NCIS.

- - - - -

Every day, day after day, Tim came to work and felt eyes upon him. Ziva's eyes, sometimes. Tony's eyes, always. They watched. Watched while he took off his jacket; watched while he set down his cup of coffee, watched while he shed his backpack, and watched while he, on some mornings, drew out from said backpack a small tan bag with blue lettering, containing a donut.

They knew that he knew that they were watching him. Of course, they knew. They made no attempt to hide it, just as he no longer made an attempt to snap back at them for doing so.

It used to be that he would bring in a donut every day: a sweet, golden toroid capped with sticky strawberry frosting and tasteless little colored sprinkles (only because the coffee shop didn't sell frosted donuts without sprinkles). He would pick off the sprinkles, every one, carefully and methodically, and sometimes Tony would jeer at him for doing so.

But there was another reason for divesting the donut of the sprinkles, and not just because Ziva thought he saved 20 calories by doing so. No, his own reason was far darker; far more troubling.

Tim liked his morning donut, as silly as that might sound for one so intent on slimming down. The donuts were baked onsite, and always fresh—sometimes, even still warm when he bought one. But the sprinkles…

- - - - -

He had no donut today. It was an off-day for donuts for him now. If Tony truly paid attention, he would soon catch on that Tim only now allowed himself a donut on Mondays and Thursdays. His coffee would be all the nourishment he'd need until lunchtime. Then, work schedule permitting, he would have a lean entrée and maybe a small salad with no dressing. At home, for dinner, he'd have just fruit, or maybe a couple rice cakes. People ate too much, he reasoned. He was no longer going to be one of them.

And that started with weaning himself from his beloved donuts.

Giving them up would not be easy. He had to find something that would convince him, in his morning coffee stop, that taking a donut was just not good for him. The mind does many amazing and clever things, but willpower alone is not always enough.

- - - - -

Tony and Ziva had noticed Tim's increasingly gaunt appearance, and they were concerned. McWaif, Tony called him now and then. So thin as to look like a woefully undernourished child from a fairy tale. It wasn't healthy. The two of them exchanged whispered speculations of anorexia and bulimia when Tim wasn't around. They studied up on the illnesses, but couldn't find any pointers in his behavior that confirmed either one.

Maybe he was really dropping weight through exercise and willpower—but it had gone too far.

As they watched his bony wrist and his stick-like fingers extend a report to Gibbs, they felt helpless. There seemed to be no way of helping someone who didn't accept that he needed help.

- - - - -

Was Tim aware of these concerns? To an extent. He ignored these, too; just as he tried to ignore all the outside stimuli that told him he was too fat, too slow, too out of shape, and probably doomed to an early death on the job because of this. Fat fat fat…

This morning he seemed, even to himself, to be moving slowly. He felt a heaviness that only increased as the morning wore on. His typing was clumsy; the report he was writing was full of typos.

The coffee long ago finished, his solace was now a can of diet soda. Zero calories could be just as filling as many calories, he told himself, if you believe in it. Belief was what it all came down to.

Do you believe you can do it?

Do you have the power?

Are you strong enough to fight the forces that are trying to defeat you?

- - - - -

"Grab your gear!" Gibbs commanded shortly before noon. "Wounded sailors off the Anacostia base."

The team rose, but Tim found it strangely hard to get out of his chair. He pushed himself up…and then fell forward with a short cry.

- - - - -

It was four hours before the team was done at the crime scene and could converge on Bethesda Naval Hospital, where Tim was being treated. The wait had torn their nerves, and they were relieved that they could speak to him in the Cardiac Care Unit for a few minutes. Only two were allowed in, so Gibbs sent Ziva and Tony to see Tim.

"I don't believe it," Tim said weakly from his bed. "A heart attack. At my age."

"It can happen at any age," Ziva said soothingly. "You were just…unlucky." She knew that the doctor had said Tim had been on the point of starving himself, and would probably be found to be a classic anorexic, but there was no use saying that now.

"It'll probably end my career," Tim gulped.

"Nah; you always bounce back, Probie," Tony smiled. "When you're fully recovered, you'll be back at work."

"And eating sensibly," Ziva added. "I will cook for you, McGee. I know many recipes for low-fat meals that you will enjoy. We will take care of you."

"As soon as you're out of here," said Tony, "I'm buying you a half dozen of those donuts you love. And I'll watch you eat them all."

"All right, folks; Agent McGee needs his rest," said the nurse, coming in. "You can visit him again tomorrow."

"Bye, Probie." "Good night, Tim."

They left, and he was alone, and afraid. He knew what his fear was, but he didn't want to give voice to it. His heart and his health were being looked after now, but his mind hadn't been touched. The fear, the fear, the terror that the fat would come back…and he had so little defense against it…

They could heal his body…but they could never heal his mind…

- - - - -

And when he was discharged from the hospital a week later, Tony was true to his word. He came bearing a white, string-tied bakery box, large enough to hold six donuts. "And I didn't take one for myself," Tony said, as if reading Tim's mind. "These are all for you. Enjoy! Come out to the car and you can start picking off the sprinkles!"

Ziva pulled the car up to the entrance and sprang out, smiling, to help him out of the wheelchair and into the passenger seat while Tony carried the donut box. "We are all going to my place for dinner, McGee," she announced. "You can nap while I cook. Gibbs will join us there."

Unbidden, Tony cut the bakery box strings and opened the box. "Here ya go, Tim! A nice, big sugary monster. Got a napkin here somewhere, too…" He handed up a donut from the car's back seat.

"Not just now, Tony, thanks…"

"Aw, come on. It's practically calling your name! Timmy…Timmy…"

"No! No! NO!!!" Tim didn't even realize he was screaming as Ziva pulled the car over.

Didn't they see it?? How could they not see it??? There, swarming over the frosted donut, just as there had been on the others he ate. Horrible. Disgusting. The children of death, itself.

The donut was covered with maggots.

-END-


End file.
